Just like Glass
by MidnightRoulette
Summary: Miranda was a ballerina, poised to be one of the greatest of her generation. Then, she gets a one way ticket to Smallville for her senior year. She prepares for the monotony of farm life, but soon discovers that Smallville is anything but boring or simple
1. Arrival

Author's Note: Yet another new story. Hope you enjoy reading this one and I would love to hear what you think, as per usual.

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><p>Chapter One: Arrival<p>

_Smallville._ It was the bane of Miranda's existence. The last place she ever thought she would end up. The last place she ever _wanted_ to end up.

She stared out the window of her mother's Lincoln Navigator and sighed, pulling her long brunette mane into a high bun. Acres of cornfields flew by as they sped along a two lane highway.

"You'll never believe who called me last night," Lisa Richardson said to her daughter.

"Who?" Miranda's voice was flat. Her mother was exiling her to a small town—clearly determined to ruin her dream. In her opinion, there was no reason to be more than civil to the old hag.

"Leslie gave me a ring last night," her mother said happily, "from Julliard."

Miranda had to admit that _this _bit of news was slightly exciting. Her older sister was a very talented dancer—just as Miranda was—but she hadn't said more than a happy birthday to either of the Richardson women in over three years. Leslie was the type to run out as soon as she hit eighteen, wanting to do _everything _her way. Consequences be damned.

Maybe if Leslie hadn't left, things wouldn't be so tense between Miranda and her mother right now. Miranda felt bad for only children at that moment.

Even dangling the prospect of hearing from her sister, however, wouldn't cause Miranda to warm up to her mother.

"Cool."

"She told me that the ballet program is absolutely fabulous. The director apparently travelled with the Royal Danish Ballet. She—"

"I know."

Her mother stopped and fixed her with a look. "You do?"

Miranda nodded. "I checked into Julliard a while back. Before—"

"Leslie said she's adjusting well," her mother said brightly—too brightly to be normal. "The girls in her company are apparently just _awful_, but well you know ballerinas."

"Of course," Miranda sighed.

"Oh! As I said, the director was the prima ballerina for the Royal Danish Ballet and she's decided to put on a spring production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ Of course, Leslie will get a starring role, as she _is _wont to do—"

"Mom," Miranda interrupted.

"Do you think she'll invite us to the production? I _hope _so—"

"Mom," Miranda said more forcefully.

"What Miranda?" She asked, irritated at having been interrupted.

"Can we not talk about this? I just want to get some sleep," Miranda lied.

"Oh." Her mother's expression sobered significantly. She recovered it quickly and replaced her frown with a smile. "Yes, well we wouldn't want you to be dead on your feet when you meet the Kents. Martha is a very dear friend of mine."

"Mhmm," Miranda muttered, purposely turning her head away from her mother.

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><p>Despite the fact that Miranda wasn't allowed to dance anymore, most of her bags were still filled with her leotards and tights—there was probably a case of Rosen in there too. Maybe even some rolls of toe tape.<p>

Whatever items Miranda had been able to keep had been hidden away into her suitcases. They were small momentous, reminiscent of her entire life's work.

Even now, instead of wearing jeans and t-shirt she favored tight fitting black leggings—they reminded her of tights—and had on her lucky leg warmers underneath her Ugg boots. Never mind the fact that she didn't need them to keep her feet warm; some habits could not be broken after years and years of repeating them.

The Kent farm was just as Miranda had pictured it would be. They had a fair amount of land and the house seemed to be right out of a _Little House on the Prairie_ novel. She had expected to see cows roaming the grounds and chickens shitting all over the place but that wasn't exactly the case. The farm seemed rather homey to Miranda, especially considering the fact that she had grown up in a high rise building in Metropolis.

Maybe the chickens were out back.

The house itself was painted a pale yellow and was complemented by the perfectly pristine white windowsills. Miranda decided she rather liked the garden out in front—there were multitudes of flowers growing through the small fenced off area.

_At least it's pretty,_ Miranda internally sighed. The way the late afternoon sun was hitting the roof shingles made the house look brighter somehow.

"Lisa! Is that you?" A red headed woman—obviously Martha Kent—was now standing on the porch, having just come out of the house. Behind her stood an older looking blonde man—Jonathan Kent, no doubt—and a tall, handsome boy about her own age—Clark.

"Martha!" Miranda's mother squealed. The two older women met somewhere in the middle and embraced each other.

Miranda stood next to the car, awkwardly waiting on the side. She glanced up at the other Kents and saw that they were smiling.

"Miranda!" Lisa snapped. "Don't just stand there staring, introduce yourself!"

Miranda's face reddened as she walked over towards Martha and her mother. She managed to put on a shy smile despite the discomfort she was feeling. "Hi Mrs. Kent."

"Martha, honey," the woman said kindly, reaching forward to embrace her. "My goodness you've grown!"

Miranda looked slightly nonplussed at this comment. To her knowledge, she had never met the Kents. Martha laughed, an embarrassed smile flitting across her pretty features. "Of course you probably don't remember me. I saw you when you were ye high." She waved her hand around mid-thigh level and smiled.

"Boys! Come on down!" Martha called out, turning around. Turning back to Lisa she smiled and said, "She looks _just_ like you."

"Doesn't she?" Lisa grinned, smoothing a hand over her daughter's hair.

_As if everything were perfectly fine_. Miranda had to force herself not to slide away from her mom as Jonathan and Clark came to stand next to Martha.

"Hello Lisa," Jonathan greeted her good-naturedly, with a kiss on the cheek. "It's good to see you."

"Jonathan," she said fondly. "And Clark! You're so tall now!"

"Mrs. Richardson," Clark said, allowing my mother to hug him. _Clearly,_ everyone here but Miranda knew each other.

Martha seemed to be the only one noticing the stiff smile and awkward body position that Miranda was currently holding. "Miranda this is Jonathan, my husband, and Clark, our son."

"N-nice to meet you," Miranda managed. She mentally smacked herself for reverting back to her shy manner of speaking. It was a habit she was trying desperately to curb.

"Martha why don't we take this inside?" Jonathan suggested.

"Good idea. Lisa, please tell me you'll stay for lunch?" Martha asked.

"That would be wonderful," she squealed.

"Clark, why don't you help Miranda with her things," Jonathan suggested as he watched the two women scamper off into the house. "I've just got to clean up in the barn a bit. Good to have you with us, Miranda."

On that note, Jonathan Kent excused himself, leaving Clark and Miranda alone. Miranda stood there, her arms and shoulders crumpled inward—the telltale sign that she was uncomfortable.

Clark smiled at her, showing off a perfect, pearly white smile. "I'm Clark." He stuck his hand out—_my God it's huge, _Miranda thought—and they shook, her small hand being completely enveloped in his larger one.

"Miranda," she said quietly.

The two of them stood there for a moment, which was just enough time for the awkwardness to seep into the atmosphere. Clark stared at Miranda while Miranda looked anywhere but at Clark.

"Well, those bags aren't going to move themselves," Clark said cheerfully. Miranda looked up, her hazel eyes meeting his incredibly clear blue ones.

"Uhh yeah—I mean yes," Miranda stammered, opening up the trunk of the car.

Clark whistled, taking in all of the boxes and bags that completely filled up the back of the large SUV. "You sure you brought enough stuff?"

Miranda glanced at Clark nervously, wondering if he thought her shallow already. Noticing her nervous look, Clark laughed. "Don't worry, I'm just kidding."

"Oh, right," Miranda said, forcing a laugh. Which only made things more awkward.

"Why don't I handle the boxes?" Clark suggested. Miranda shrugged and slid two of her duffels onto one shoulder and grabbed her purse with her free hand. Clark picked up a few—no, five—boxes by himself and led the way into the house. An amazed Miranda followed closely behind him.

Between the two of them it only took a few minutes to unload all of Miranda's things and take the upstairs into the guest room. By the time they went downstairs, lunch was already waiting for them on the table and Jonathan Kent had returned to the house.

Miranda slid into the seat next to Clark and across from Martha, deciding it was safer than sitting next to her mom. The adults smiled at the two of them, then at each other, sharing a secret look that obviously meant, "Look how _cute _they are!"

Miranda had to refrain from gagging. It appeared that the Kents and her mother had already fixed their plates full of fruit salad and sandwiches, leaving Clark and Miranda plenty of food.

Clark immediately started piling his plate high with—_Good Lord, three sandwiches?_—as much food as he could possibly stuff onto the white china. Miranda waited patiently for her turn.

"Clark," Jonathan coughed, glancing at Miranda.

"Right, sorry," Clark laughed, setting his plate down. "Go ahead."

Miranda quickly scooped some fruit onto her plate and half of a sandwich, smiling gratefully at Mrs. Kent.

"So, Miranda," Jonathan said, to break the silence, "Martha told me you're a dancer."

"That's correct," Miranda said quietly.

"Well," Miranda's mom put in awkwardly, "she's taking a little break right now. Leslie, on the other hand—"

"What kind of dance?" Clark said to Miranda.

"Ballet," she sighed, pushing the fruit on her plate around. Her mother sent a covert glare towards Miranda and she spooned a piece of cantaloupe into her mouth, reluctantly.

"That must be tough," Clark laughed, "but you look like a ballerina."

A flutter of pride raced through Miranda's heart. "You think so?'

"Yeah I—"

"Leslie was just accepted into Julliard this summer and she's going be enrolling for the fall semester," Lisa said to Martha. "Of course she's already taken the place by storm. You know Leslie."

"That I do," Martha laughed.

"She may not look like you," Jonathan laughed, "but she sure acts like you did at her age."

"Oh," my mother tsked, good-naturedly, "don't say that! Leslie would never forgive you." The adults all shared a laugh as they began digging into their food.

Miranda sat awkwardly there, as the conversation turned—as it always did—to Leslie's greatest accomplishments.

If anyone had looked into the window of the Kent's house at that moment they might have seen a lot of things. They might have seen the picture of old friends reminiscing together. They might have seen a loving mother in Lisa Richardson as she raved about her eldest daughter. They might have seen the close relationships that the Kent's so obviously shared with each other.

But no one would've seen Miranda Richardson. She was just a regular girl—now that her dream had been taken from her—pushing food around on her plate one more time, if only to make it _look_ as if she were trying to get better.


	2. Life on the Farm

Author's Note: Hey guys! Thanks so much for the positive feedback for the first chapter. I'm a big Smallville fan and I'm super excited to be writing this. Enjoy the second chapter!

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><p>Chapter Two: Life on the Farm<p>

Miranda's new bedroom was a major step down from her old room in Metropolis. The walls were bare, painted with a pale yellow paint and there was much less space than there had been in her old room. The only positive that Miranda could see was that there was a window bench that looked out over the more attractive part of the farm.

Nevertheless, Miranda didn't feel at home. Not one bit.

Unpacking had been a strange process for Miranda. She had lived with her Mother and Leslie in the same penthouse apartment for as long as she could remember. She imagined that this is what college freshmen felt like, moving into their dorms for the first time. Generic wallpaper and plain furniture.

At least Mrs. Kent had made the room look somewhat nice with a pretty duvet cover.

After the initially awkward lunch with her mother and the Kents, Miranda had retired to her room to begin unpacking. Clark and Mr. Kent had gone out into the barn to work on their truck and Mrs. Kent informed her that she had some chores to do. This saved Miranda from the obligation of having to socialize.

For the past couple of hours, she'd gotten rid of most of her boxes and managed to put away most of her clothes in her room's dresser. More than half of the clothes had been old leotards and dance warm ups.

Miranda's pointe shoes hadn't made it into her bag, thanks to her mother. Neither had her Swan Lake poster or her various recital rewards. The few things her mother hadn't confiscated included her diary and her first pair of pointe shoe ribbons.

She had tearfully stuffed the diary and the ribbons into the corner of her underwear drawer for safe keeping.

Miranda was currently staring at a picture taken of her and another dancer—Mila was her name—at the last spring performance. In this picture, they actually looked like friends. Pretty girls in their pretty ballet shoes with pretty smiles. Mila had been her rival throughout the years, but they had understood each other to a certain extent.

Unlike her mother. Her mother didn't understand the kind of commitment and dedication Miranda had put into her dancing. She probably never would.

Her mother had promised her a fresh start when she came to Smallville. But a fresh start was anything _but _what Miranda wanted. She'd had it all at the dance academy in Metropolis, she'd been able to do what she loved.

Now, she was stuck in the boonies, without any friends. Even the backstabbing bitches she had known over the years from ballet were a welcome sight at this time. Frenemies were better than being friendless. Even if Mila was probably cheering at the prospect of being awarded _all _the lead roles in future productions, Miranda still felt a pang of sadness when she thought of her rival

Miranda slid down to the floor, leaving the picture on her desk, finally coming back to the present.

She slid the boots from her feet and curled them up into her, as a knock sounded on the door. She glanced up, deciding she'd better stand up or risk seeming like a total psycho.

Miranda pulled open her bedroom door to find a smiling Clark standing there.

"Uh hi," he said, awkwardly shifting his feet. "I'm driving into town to meet some friends for dinner and I thought you might want to come."

Miranda looked back into her room, noting the emptiness in it. Did she really want to sit in her room and stare at the wall instead of going out to socialize?

The answer, apparently, was yes.

"I'd love to," Miranda said quietly, "but I've still got a lot of unpacking to do. Maybe next time?"

Clark looked slightly nonplussed, but didn't look angry. "Next time for sure. Don't worry about it."

Miranda managed a smile as she closed the door on Clark. She blew out a sigh as she retreated back onto the floor and slipped into her previous seated position.

Her gaze gradually wandered to the wall.

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><p>When Martha Kent found Miranda the next morning at six, she was no doubt surprised to find her already awake, seated on the floor. The fact that Miranda had simply sat there and stared at the wall all night was obviously unknown to her.<p>

Miranda stood up as Mrs. Kent walked into the room. "Did you sleep well?"

_Not a wink._ "Yes," Miranda replied, "the bed is super comfortable."

"Good," Martha smiled. She stood a polite distance away from Miranda who had her shoulders hunched inward. Martha laughed as she glanced around the room. "I came up here thinking that I'd have to actually _wake _you up, but I see you're an early riser."

"It's a habit," she shrugged.

Martha chuckled lightly and her eyes raked over Miranda. "You might want to put on some sturdier clothes. Clark is going to show you the ropes on the farm today."

"T-the ropes?" Miranda stuttered.

"Yeah," Martha said, "didn't your mom tell you that you'd be working for us?"

"She didn't mention it." _Typical Lisa Richardson_. Miranda made a mental note to call her mother later to discuss her reluctance to _tell _her own daughter that she was going to have to engage in manual labor.

Martha seemed surprised. "Well, nonetheless, everyone who lives here earns their keep." She didn't say this unkindly, but the message was firm and clear. "Even Clark earns his keep." She added this with a grin.

"Understood," Miranda nodded.

"Great!" Martha clapped her hands together. "Well, breakfast is ready when you come down. We generally like to get out there before seven, so you'll want to get changed pretty soon." Martha headed for the door, pausing before she closed the door behind her. "You'll want to hurry if you want breakfast. Clark tends to eat _quite _a lot."

Miranda nodded, smiling at the older woman as she closed her bedroom door.

_Wonderful._

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><p>"Where's Jonathan?" Miranda asked timidly, from the lower level of the barn. Being alone with Clark was going to make working impossible. He was just so… intimidating. Despite the fact that he seemed to be a pretty nice guy.<p>

"Dad had to run to Metropolis," Clark explained, rummaging around in one of the supply sheds, "he should be back by lunch time."

Miranda nodded. "So… what exactly do we do now?"

"Well, I figured we could start with something easy, considering it's your first day and all," Clark grinned. "It is your first time doing this stuff right? You've never lived on a farm before?"

"Definitely not," Miranda said flatly. "I've lived in Metropolis my entire life."

"Okay, well the hay was delivered out front," Clark shrugged. "We can grab that and bring it in for the horses."

"Okay."

The two of them made their way out of the barn and travelled down the long dirt road that led to the white fenced gate. Stacks of hay were sitting just outside the gate, waiting for someone to pick them up.

"Hay is delivered once a week, usually on Sundays. We asked for an early delivery date this week though." Miranda nodded as Clark hefted three of the hay bales into his arms. He glanced at Miranda, no doubt contemplating whether or not she could even carry _one _of the hay bales.

She walked over and grabbed the top of one of the hay bales and lifted with all the strength she could muster. She yanked violently again, to no avail.

She sighed. "If you can get it up for me, I can carry it."

Clark laughed, setting his own hay bales down. He picked one up easily and held it at Miranda's shoulder level, lowering it slowly.

"You got it?" he asked, keeping a tight hold on it until she could wrap her arms around the bale. She nodded and braced herself as Clark let go. She staggered slightly, but managed to remain upright.

"Let's go," she ground out as Clark picked up his hay bales.

The two returned to the barn, Miranda staggering under the weight of her single bale. Periodically, Clark glanced back at her, probably making sure that she wasn't going to keel over. Once they were inside the barn, Miranda dropped the hay bale and rubbed her shoulder, sufficiently out of breath.

"How—" Miranda gulped in air rapidly. "—do you do this every day?"

Clark chuckled, dropping his bales next to hers. "You'll get used to it." Miranda's expression was flat at the thought of having to work this hard every day for the rest of the summer. "Come on there's still _quite _a few bales out there. Forty to be exact—"

Miranda groaned, her shoulders drooping.

"—we can milk the cows—"

"Cows?" Miranda raised her eyebrows.

"—and after that I'll teach you how to drive the tractor."

_As if this day could get any worse._

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><p>"You want me to grab the cow's what now?"<p>

"The teats."

"Where are those?"

"On the utter."

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><p>"No! Wait! Don't hit the sheep!" Clark shouted, reaching over from his perch next to the tractor's driver seat to yank the wheel to one side.<p>

Miranda took the wheel again, her breathing shallow. "Sorry! Sorry! I've never done this before."

"It's okay, just turn left," Clark said, pointing ahead at the border fence between the Kent farm and the neighboring farm. "You're going to run into the fence."

Miranda turned the wheel a few times to the left, starting to panic as the tractor only moved a few inches to the left._ Oh god, _she thought to herself, trying to turn it some more. "It's not turning!"

"Just turn it to the—Left! Left!" Clark's voice raised in volume as the tractor crashed into the white fence. Miranda screamed, a high pitched sound until Clark reached over and turned the tractor off.

"S-sorry," she choked out, struggling not to have a full-blown panic attack.

Clark shrugged. "Don't worry about it too much. We can rebuild the fence."

Miranda was silent for a moment as she forced herself to relax. "I'm not very good at this."

"Most people aren't," he assured her, glancing at his watch. "We should probably head back to the barn, grab some wood and fix the fence. Dad won't be too happy if he comes back and sees that."

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><p>"Alright, just hold the nail with your left hand, and hit the head with the hammer until it goes all the way into the wood." Clark demonstrated for Miranda as she held the fence up.<p>

"Got it," Miranda nodded, grabbing her own hammer and nail as Clark set to work nailing together his part of the fence.

She poised the nail just where they had put on of the little black marks—so that she would know where to hammer—and pulled the hammer back.

Miranda swung the hammer down, only to miss completely and hit herself in the hand. "Ouch!" she cried out, dropping the hammer. "Shit, shit, shit!"

Clark looked up in alarm. "You _already _hurt yourself?"

"Ow," she whined, cradling her hand into her chest.

"Let me see," Clark sighed.

"No it's—ow—fine," Miranda protested, surprising herself with the strength behind the statement. It was unusual for her voice to sound so forceful.

Clark ignored her and grabbed her throbbing hand. "Yep, that's gotta hurt. It needs ice though and lucky for you it's time to head in for lunch. I'll finish the fence up later."

The two started back for the Kent household together, walking side by side. "Tip for next time though? Don't take such a big backswing."

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><p>"It's about time you two came back in," Martha said, smiling as the two teenagers made their way back in around lunch time. They had seen Jonathan drive up to the house and make his way inside as they were making their way back for lunch.<p>

Miranda wiped a bead of sweat making its way down her forehead as she took a seat across from Martha.

"I'll get ice," Clark offered, walking over to the freezer.

She struggled not to grimace as she glanced at the plate before, containing a heaping pile of food. _Turkey sandwhiches, _Miranda thought, _on _white_ bread. _Discreetly, she took the bread off and hid it underneath her potato salad, leaving only the turkey.

If she was going to eat something, it might as well be protein. After all, protein helped to burn fat.

"How's the work been coming along so far?" Jonathan asked, glancing at Miranda and Clark.

Clark rummaged around the freezer, chuckling slightly. "Well… Miranda's—"

"Oh! Sweetie what happened to your hand?" Martha noticed Miranda was holding it and that it was beat red.

"Here you go," Clark said, handing her the bag of ice as he took the seat next to her.

Miranda slid the ice over her hand, wincing as it stung uncomfortably. She took a small bite of turkey and sipped her lemonade.

"Farm work is definitely not my forte," Miranda admitted. "Ask me to perform the Rose Adagio and I'll do it almost perfectly—

"The what now?" Jonathan interrupted.

Miranda stared at him blankly for a moment, until realization dawned upon her. "The Rose Adagio? From Sleeping Beauty? The classical ballet by Tchaikovsky?" The looks on the Kent's faces remained curiously blank. "It's one of the most difficult pieces of ballet choreography to perform."

"Ah, of course," Jonathan said. "You'll have to forgive us—"

"It's my fault," Miranda offered weakly, the thoughts of ballet beginning to seep back into her head. The thoughts of what she was missing most had been pushed to the back of her mind as she had stumbled through her farm work.

Now though, with nothing to occupy her mind, she remembered, and it immediately caused her to sober up. Grabbing her fork, she began to push her potato salad around the plate.

"I grew up in a house where it was _all _ballet _all _the time," Miranda explained. "I forget that things like the Rose Adagio aren't common knowledge."

Jonathan and Martha shared a laugh with each other, as if Miranda was just _so _adorable.

"Well Miranda," Jonathan said, "I'm sure you won't be that bad on the farm. You just have to get used to it."

Miranda nodded as Jonathan started telling a story from his youth about his first experiences working on the farm. She zoned out, smiling politely as she ate her turkey in small bites and sipped her lemonade. She laughed quietly when it was appropriate and when they all finished eating, she helped to clear the dishes.

Then, they went back to work.


	3. Chloe Sullivan: Ace Reporter

Author's Note: Sorry for those of you who have been waiting for this chapter! I've been so busy with my Young Justice fic (No Risk, No Reward) that I've been completely neglecting this story, even though I have been intending to write a Smallville fic for quite some time. So without further ado, here is chapter three.

Disclaimer: I do not own Smallville.

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><p>Chapter Three: Chloe Sulivan: Ace Reporter<p>

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><p><em>Pas de basque.<em> Left foot,_ pas de chat. _Left foot, _pas de chat. _

Miranda moved gracefully around her bedroom at the Kent's despite being exhausted from a long day of farm work. Her hand had been hurting all day, but Mr. Kent had assured her that it would be fine and that it was just one of the casualties of farm life.

Miranda didn't have her pointe shoes but that didn't mean she couldn't dance on the floor. Sure her dancing might not look the same, but it was a sort of mental reassurance for her that she _could_ still dance.

She was in the middle of a _petit jete _when her cell phone trilled from on the bed, startling her.

"Shit," she swore, glancing at the caller id. _Leslie _was calling her? That was a first.

"Hello?"

"Miranda?" Leslie sounded confused.

Miranda sighed. "Who did you think you were calling?"

"I was just shocked you picked up the phone."

"We haven't even gotten so much as a Christmas card from you in three years, Leslie. What do you expect?"

Leslie sighed. "Mom _said_ you were in a god awful mood."

Miranda blanched, hopping up onto her bed. "She pulled me from the Academy and sent me to a farm in the middle of nowhere. I have no friends, nothing to do except milk cows, and I can't dance."

Leslie whistled, but was otherwise silent.

"She didn't even let me keep my pointe shoes," Miranda added after a moment of silence.

"That's… extreme," Leslie allowed. "I _am _sorry Miranda."

_Well that's another first: Leslie apologizing. _"It's not your fault. I don't really think that it's anyone's really."

"Yeah. I get it."

The sisters were silent and for a brief moment, Miranda wondered what on earth they were supposed to talk about. Miranda hadn't seen her sister in three years, hadn't even spoken to her. What did they have in common now that Miranda was no longer allowed to dance?

Answer: Absolutely nothing, but Miranda _was _curious about Julliard.

"How's Julliard?" she asked.

"Nonexistent," Leslie answered gleefully.

"_What_ do you mean nonexistent?"

"Well… don't tell Mom, but I'm not exactly there anymore."

Miranda's eyes widened. "Were you kicked out?"

Leslie snorted. "God, no. I just couldn't stand the place anymore. The teachers were _awful_ Miranda. They wouldn't give me _a _single lead role in even the smallest productions. Because of well… you know."

Miranda's heart felt leaden in her chest. _God_ did she know what Leslie was talking about.

"I get it," Miranda said uncomfortably.

"The Richardson name is _so _respected in American ballet," Leslie said flatly. "Which is _why_ I dropped out. I'm in London right now."

"London?" Miranda asked.

"I flew in a few days ago and I'm still getting my bearings but…" Leslie trailed off and Miranda could tell her sister had news. "I had an audition with the London Ballet yesterday and I've been accepted!"

"Wow," Miranda said quietly. "That's—that's really cool. Y-you're going to dance professionally. Internationally, too."

"Yeah," Leslie sighed dreamily, completely oblivious to her younger sister's melancholy. "It's such an opportunity. The Director—his name is Hans, of all things—is really great, super talented. He didn't even care that I was a Richardson. Said that I was too talented to let go of."

"Wow," Miranda repeated, because really there was nothing else to say.

Miranda heard Leslie breathe out on the other line. "You know, this means there's hope for you too, Mir. You can come here, dance in a professional company when you're out of high school."

"I haven't danced in almost a month, Leslie," Miranda said flatly. "Even if I had a studio and shoes to practice with…With no coach, my form will become terribly sloppy."

Leslie snorted. "Come on, I know you better than that, Mir. You're form is impeccable."

Miranda swallowed. "Fair enough. But I have nothing to practice with and nowhere to practice anyways. And mom and my therapist probably have Mrs. Kent watching me like a—"

"Who cares about them?" Leslie interrupted.

"—so it's cows and hay bales for me," she finished, ignoring Leslie.

Leslie sighed. "Methinks you doth protest too much. But hey—don't' give up, okay?"

Miranda wanted to allow herself to hope that she could get back to dancing, but the fates were against her. "I-I have to go. It's really late here and I have to be up at five tomorrow."

"Well, okay." Leslie sounded disappointed but didn't push the issue. "I'm really glad I called, Mir. It's good to hear your voice."

"You too," Miranda said blankly. "Bye, Leslie."

"Kisses."

* * *

><p>Miranda closed her phone with a sigh and dropped onto her back. She was happy to hear from her sister, despite the apparent awkwardness. And she was proud of her too. No doubt Leslie would be the star of the London Ballet in less than a year.<p>

Her sister had always been the better of the two.

The next morning Miranda awoke at the butt crack of dawn and went down for breakfast, only to find that Jonathan and Clark were noticeably absent. Mrs. Kent was the only one sitting at the breakfast table, coffee mug in hand.

"Miranda!" Martha stood up and rushed over to the cabinets. "How about some coffee? And breakfast? Are you hungry?"

"Coffee would be nice," Miranda said. "I can get it though."

Martha smiled and handed her the mug. "I'll make you a plate."

"You don't have to—"

"I insist," Martha smiled. "No guest of mine will want for food. We need to fatten you up a little."

Logically, Miranda knew she was just being nice. But she still didn't like the idea of _fattening up._

Miranda waited for the coffee maker to spit out the black liquid into her cup and she proceeded to skip the sugar and milk—it gave her cellulite—and took the seat across from Martha.

A steaming plate of pancakes stared up at her.

"Where are Clark and Jonathan?" Miranda asked, playing with her fork.

"Oh, they had to take care of some… things." Martha's voice sounded a bit strained but the smile on her face was genuine. "Guy things."

Miranda nodded, taking a small bit of the pancakes, feeling the delicious blueberries explode in her mouth. For a girl who didn't like food, Mrs. Kent's food sure was delicious.

"These are really good," Miranda commented. "You're a much better cook than my mom is."

Martha laughed. "Your mother's idea of cooking, when we were in college, was popping leftovers in the oven."

"That does sound like Mom."

Martha smiled and took a bite of her own pancakes as Miranda sipped her coffee.

"Anyways, I was wondering if you wanted to go into town with me today. You seem kind of worn out from the farm work."

"Oh its fine I—"

"You can help me out around the house," Martha smiled. "It's just as important as the farm work. Besides, we need to run down to the school and get you registered for the fall. Then maybe we can see about getting you some work clothes."

Miranda nodded, knowing resistance would be futile. Martha Kent seemed like a woman who wouldn't take no for an answer.

* * *

><p>After eating breakfast, Martha had driven Miranda to the main street of Smallville where they first stopped off at the hardware shop to pick up a wrench that Jonathan needed to fix their other car. Then, they headed to the sporting goods store and bought Miranda some working boots and some sturdier t-shirts and jeans.<p>

At least Miranda's mother had given her a credit card. It would've been too much to bear if Mrs. Kent had offered to pay. From there, the pair headed to Smallville high and got Miranda registered for the fall semester.

Before heading home however, Miranda and Martha stopped at the Talon—the cool hangout in town apparently—so that Mrs. Kent could do the payroll.

Miranda sat at the coffee bar while Mrs. Kent chatted animatedly with one of the employees.

She was secretly wondering what Clark and Mr. Kent were doing, and _who _would do the farm work while they were gone. Obviously it wasn't going to be Miranda, since she couldn't really _do _anything.

Besides milk a cow. Unfortunately, Miranda knew that cows did _not _produce milk in a day.

Turning her head towards the window, her eyes caught sight of something. She looked through the passersby and saw a dance store, its neon sign jumping out at her.

_If there's a dance store here then maybe I could—_

Miranda stopped herself there.

Even if they had pointe shoes, they wouldn't be quality dance shoes, nor would she be able to buy them with her mom's credit card. Her mom would see the purchase and send her to a reform school or something.

"You ready to head out?" Mrs. Kent said to Miranda as she finished up talking to her employee.

"Yeah, definitely," Miranda said distractedly.

* * *

><p>"Where'd you guys go?" Miranda asked Clark as they washed dishes together later that night. Jonathan and Martha were currently camped out upstairs in the bedroom. The sounds of the movie they were playing barely wafted down to Miranda's ears.<p>

"What do you mean?" Clark asked, nonplussed. "_Oh!_ You mean today?" Miranda nodded, drying off a coffee mug. "Metropolis."

Miranda could tell from the tone of his voice that he was lying, but she decided she didn't really care. Whatever Clark and Mr. Kent did on their own time wasn't her business.

"I head Mom took you shopping," Clark commented.

"She did," Miranda confirmed.

"She bought you Wranglers and flannel, am I right?"

"Yep."

The two were silent as they finished up the dishes and started the laborious task of putting things away in the cabinets. Miranda grabbed a few plates as Clark wiped down the dishwasher.

Reaching up for the top shelf where the dishes were kept, she reached up on her tip toes to try and get it up there.

"Need some help?" Clark asked, startling her.

Miranda felt the plates slip from her grasp and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the loud crash. But it never came. She opened her eyes and glanced at the stack of plates that were now in Clark's hands.

"How'd you do that?" Miranda asked.

"I was standing right behind you," Clark grinned, reaching over her to shove the plates onto the top shelf.

"F-fast reflexes," Miranda muttered, stepping out from under his large frame. She could've sworn Clark was over by the dishwasher, but what did she know?

Clark shrugged, walking over to close the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. Miranda raised an eyebrow at him and he opened his mouth to explain when Martha shouted down.

"Clark?"

"It's just Chloe!" He answered back. Turning to Miranda he said, "Chloe goes to Smallville high. I invited her over to watch a movie and I thought it would be good for you guys to meet—"

The door squeaked as it opened and Miranda could hear the clacking of someone's heels as they made their way across the wood floors.

"You know for someone who moves as quickly as you—"

"Chloe!" Clark exclaimed, though the cheerfulness seemed forced. "Did I forget to tell you about our _guest_?"

Chloe stopped in the middle of the kitchen, slapping her hand over her mouth. Miranda immediately gauged Chloe's appearance. Short—but taller than Miranda—with blonde hair, blue eyes, and slightly rotund—at least as far as ballerinas were concerned.

"I am so sorry," Chloe laughed. "I completely forgot." She walked quickly over to Miranda and shook her hand eagerly. "I'm Chloe Sullivan."

"M-Miranda Richardson," she replied, put off slightly by her enthusiasm.

"_No!_" Chloe gasped. "Really?"

Miranda furrowed her eyebrows and looked to Clark. He looked just as confounded as she did.

"Uh, yes?" Miranda didn't know what else to say.

"The Daily Planet has been looking all over for you!" Chloe told her. "Why didn't you mention it was _the _Miranda Richardson?"

Miranda almost groaned. She _so _didn't need this right now.

"I wasn't aware someone famous was living across the hall?" Clark raised an eyebrow. To Miranda he said, "Chloe's an intern at the Daily Planet."

Chloe shifted her weight onto one foot and crossed her arms. "You really didn't know?" Clark shook his head and Miranda looked away. "Miranda was featured in the Daily Planet's expose on young phenoms. It was put out last year."

"Wow," Clark whistled. "You never mentioned you're that great of a dancer."

"I _was_," Miranda shrugged, turning to glance at Chloe. "Past tense."

"Could I—" Chloe bit her lip, excitement clear in her body language. "Would you maybe let me interview you? My Editor wants to do a follow up on everyone who was featured and we couldn't—"

"Chloe," Clark warned.

Chloe broke off as she seemed to realize something. "What _are _you doing in Smallville exactly? That would explain why we couldn't find you—"

"I—I'm not dancing anymore," Miranda admitted, looking down.

"Oh," Chloe sobered up. "I—are you injured?"

"Not exactly. It's a long story." Miranda told her, suddenly wishing she was anywhere but here.

Chloe thought about this for a moment and seemed to decide something. "How about an exclusive? It could _definitely_ be featured on the front page of the entertainment section. And if I got the story—"

"I'm not sure that's such a good—"

"I promise it would be super easy and hardly like an interview. Just two friends having coffee—"

"Chloe!" Clark groaned. "Why don't you just go put in the movie?"

"Fine, fine," Chloe muttered, rolling her eyes. She turned to Miranda. "Sorry, sometimes I forget to check my reporter persona at the door. Most of the time actually."

Miranda nodded, struggling to find an apt response when her caller id lit up.

_Mom._

She glanced at Clark and Chloe, knowing that they would probably think she was an incredible snob for ditching out on a movie night with them. But her mother was just the excuse she needed to get away from them.

Someone in Smallville knew who she was. In the past, that might have brought a flutter of pride to Miranda's heart. But now, all she felt was great sadness for what she had lost.

"I have to take this," she said, feigning regret as she walked towards the stairs. "You can start the movie without me."

"You sure?" Clark asked.

She nodded and turned away, flipping open her phone.

"Hello?"


End file.
